


Autumn Roses

by methylviolet10b



Series: October Spooktacular 2019 [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Retirement, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: Holmes cannot escape the thought that they have wasted so much time. Written for the first prompt of the October Spooktacular event over on Watson's Woes.





	Autumn Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Осенние розы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21032027) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

> Warnings: This is utterly fluffy retirement-era schmoop, and as such probably wildly out of character. But it's what leapt to mind for this prompt, and I have no time to write anything else, so... If you're looking for spooky, or mystery, or anything October-related, consider moving along, nothing to see here...
> 
> Prompt: A Haunting Thought: Whether it's a memory, an idea, or just something that won't get out of a character's head, have something mental haunt a character.

_All those years, wasted.   
_  
It is a poor reasoner indeed that allows himself to dwell on what cannot be changed, rather than what is. Yet I have not been able to rid myself of this one thought.   
  
I am happier indeed than I ever expected to be, or dared hope for. I know that my Watson is happy as well, for he tells me so every day, and not just in the myriad ways that I observe in his manner and gestures. He makes a point of saying so in words every morning, and every evening, in these blissful Sussex days we spend together.   
  
I was not so happy even in the height of my career, in London, with all the world’s admiration and more cases than I could ask for, with Moriarty defeated and dead, and Watson at my side. That was contentment and companionship and enjoyment, but nothing like this. So I cannot help but think: how much better could it have been? How could I have been so blind to this? All those years we spent together, we could have been even happier than we were then. So many years.  
  
The sound of Watson returning from the garden disrupts my reverie. I set down my pipe and raise an eyebrow, for he carries flowers in his hands. Roses, and yet it is October.  
  
“Where did you find those? We have no greenhouse. Have you acquired an admirer?” I meant the last to sound like a jest, but privately I feel it no laughing matter. My Watson has always had the ability to turn heads, and there are several matrons of his age in the village. It would not surprise me in the least if one or more of them set their caps at him.  
  
Watson smiles tolerantly even as he shakes his head. “They come from your garden - ”   
  
“Our garden,” I contradict immediately. Watson must understand: this is our home. His and mine. Mine first, but his now too, and if only we had not wasted so much time, he could have helped pick it out. We could have chosen it together.  
  
Watson’s smile grows broader. He is unaware of the turmoil I hide beneath the humor. “…very well, _our _garden, as I would expect you to know, except I saw no sign of bees on them, so perhaps roses do not interest bees.”  
  
It is almost certainly too cold for the foragers to be out, but I doubt that would interest him, and it is at any rate not to the point. “But it’s October. Roses bloom in June.”  
  
Watson pauses in the midst of laying the flowers down on the table. He looks briefly surprised, and then understanding lights his eyes. “While most roses do indeed bloom in June, Holmes, some roses bloom earlier and later as well. And as you can see by the evidence, we have at least one rose in the garden that is blooming now.” His smile grows softer, more introspective. “All flowers bloom in their own time, regardless of what the poets and almanacs have to say about the matter.”  
  
There is the answer, the remedy and antidote to the thought that has been plaguing me day in and day out. We have _not _wasted time, Watson and I. We were happy then – and perhaps we would not have been so happy, had we realized then what we know now. All things must happen in their own season. _Now _is our time, our moment to bloom. And if one corner of my mind still cannot help but wish that our spring had come sooner, the rest of me knows that it is enough that our spring did come, and that it will last the rest of our lives.  
  
Autumn roses are harder to see among the fall foliage, but they smell all the sweeter when blooming in a Sussex cottage, warmed by the fires within.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted October 6, 2019.


End file.
